I was on one knee, just finishing an examination of a last probable footprint, when I heard raised voices, threats of unpleasant and intimate dismemberment, and assorted profane expressions of anatomical impossibility. It could only mean one thing. I stood up and looked over toward the trailhead, and sure enough, I was right.

Deborah had arrived.

It was a pretty good fight, as these things go, and it would have lasted a whole lot longer if not for the FDLE man. He was a guy I knew about by reputation, named Chambers, and he literally stepped in between Deborah and the other detective, a large man named Burris. Putting one hand out onto Burris's chest, and the other politely in the air in front of Deborah, Chambers said, "Cut it out." Burris shut up immediately. I saw Debs take a breath to say something, and Chambers looked at her. She looked back and held her breath, and then just let it out silently.

I was impressed, and I edged around to get a better look at the man from the FDLE. He had a shaved head and he was not tall, but as he swung around I could see his face, and I knew why Debs had buttoned her lip, even without the small warning flutter from the Passenger. The man had gunfighter's eyes, the kind you see on the old pictures of Wild West lawmen. You did not argue with those eyes. It was like looking into two cold, blue pistol barrels.

"Lookit," Chambers was saying. "We want to solve this thing, not fight about it." Burris nodded, and Deborah said nothing. "So let Forensics finish up, try to get an ID on the victim. If the lab work says it's your girl," he said, nodding at Deborah, "it's your case. If not"-and he tilted his head to Burris-"go crazy. It's all yours. Until then"-he looked straight at Debs and, to her great credit, she looked back without whimpering-"you stay quiet and let Burris work. All right?"

"I get access," Deborah said sullenly.

"Access," Chambers said. "Not control."

Debs looked at Burris. He shrugged and looked away. "All right," she said.

And so the Battle of the Everglades was over, ending happily for everyone-except, of course, for Dexter the Drudge, because Debs apparently interpreted "access" to mean following me around and peppering me with questions. I was almost finished anyway, but it did not make things easier to have a shadow, especially one like Deborah, who was likely to attack me with one of her agonizing arm punches at any moment if I failed to answer her satisfactorily. I filled her in on what I knew and what I had guessed as I sprayed my Bluestar in a few final spots, looking for any last traces of blood. The spray would reveal even the tiniest hint of blood, down to the smallest droplet, and it did not affect the DNA of the sample.

"What is it?" Deborah demanded. "What did you find?"

"Nothing," I said. "But you're standing on a footprint." She stepped aside guiltily and I got my camera out of my bag. I stood and turned back around, bumping squarely into Deborah. "Debs, please," I said. "I really can't do this with you attached to my hip."

"Fine," she said, and she stalked away to a spot opposite the fire pit.

I had just taken a last picture of the main blood spatter when I heard Deborah calling. "Dex," she said. "Hey, bring your spray over here." I looked over to where she stood. Vince Masuoka was kneeling and taking a sample of something. I got my Bluestar and joined them.

"Spray it right here," Deborah said, and Vince shook his head.

"It's not blood," he said. "It's the wrong color."

I looked down at the spot he was examining. There was a flattened area, as if a heavy object had stood there backed up against a row of vegetation. The leaves were wilted from heat, and on them, as well as at the edge of the depression, there were a few small brown stains. Something had spilled out from some kind of container that had been there.

"Spray it," Deborah said.

I looked at Vince, who shrugged. "I got a clean sample already," he said. "It's not blood."

"All right," I said, and I sprayed a small spot on one of the bushes.

Almost immediately a very faint blue glow was visible. "Not blood," Debs said scornfully. "So what the fuck is that?"

"Shit," Vince mumbled.

"It's not much blood," I said. "The glow is too faint."

"But it's some blood?" Debs demanded.

"Well, yes," I said.

"So it's some other kind of shit, with blood in it," she said.

I looked at Vince. "Well," he said. "I guess so."

Deborah nodded and looked around. "So you got a party," she said. She pointed at the fire pit. "And way over there you got the victim. And way over here on the other side of the party you got this." She glared at Vince. "With blood in it." She turned to me. "So what is it?" she demanded.

I should not have been surprised that this was suddenly my problem, but I was. "Come on, Debs," I said.

"No, you come on," she said. "I need one of your special hunches here."

"I have a special hunch back at the station," Vince said. "His name is Ivan."

"Shut up, dickless," Deborah said. "Come on, Dexter."

Apparently there was nothing for it, so I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and listened…

And almost immediately got a very amused answer from the Passenger. "Punch bowl," I said, snapping my eyes open.

"What?" Deborah said.

"It's the punch bowl," I said. "For the party."

"With human blood in it?" she said.

"Punch?" Vince said. "Jesus' tits, Dex, you're a sick fuck."

"Hey," I said innocently, "I didn't drink any of it."

"You're fucking crazy," Deborah added helpfully.

"Debs, look," I said. "It's away from the fire, and we got this dent in the ground." I knelt next to Vince and pointed to the depression in the dirt. "Something heavy, stuff spilled out to the sides, lots of footprints around it-you don't have to call it punch if that makes you nervous. But it's the beverage."

Deborah stared at the spot I pointed to, looked across the clearing at the fire pit, and then back to the ground at her feet. She shook her head slowly, dropped into a squat beside me, and said, "Punch bowl. Fuck."

"You're a sick fuck," Vince repeated.

"Yeah," Debs said. "But I think he's right." She stood up. "I bet you a dozen doughnuts you find some kind of drug traces in there, too," she said with a very noticeable note of satisfaction.

"I'll check it," Vince said. "I got a good test for ecstasy." He gave her his hideous sex leer and added, "Would you like to take the ecstasy test with me?"

"No, thanks," she said. "You don't have the pencil for it." She turned away before he could try one of his awful comebacks, and I followed. It took me only three steps to realize that something about her was very wrong, and when it registered I stopped dead and turned her to face me.

I looked at my sister with surprise. "Debs," I said. "You're actually smiling."

"Yeah," she said. "Because we just proved that this is my case."

"What do you mean?"

She punched me, hard. It may have been a happy punch for her, but it still hurt me. "Don't be stupid," she said. "Who drinks blood?"

"Ouch," I said. "Bela Lugosi?"

"Him and all the other vampires," she said. "You want me to spell 'vampire' for you?"

"So what-Oh," I said.

"Yeah, oh," she said. "We turn up a vampire wannabe, Bobby Acosta. And now we got a whole fucking vampire frat party. You think that's a coincidence?"

I didn't think so, but my arm hurt too much to say so. "We'll see," I said.

"Yes, we will," she said. "Get your stuff; I'll drive you back."

It was definitely lunchtime when we got back to civilization, but none of the subtle hints I threw out to Debs seemed to register, and she drove straight back to headquarters without pausing, in spite of the fact that Route 41 turns into Calle Ocho, and we could easily have pulled over at a number of excellent Cuban restaurants. Just thinking about them made my stomach growl, and I imagined I could smell the platanos sizzling in the frying pan. But as far as Deborah was concerned, the wheels of justice were already in motion, grinding their inexorable way toward a guilty verdict and a safer world, which apparently meant that Dexter could very well do without lunch for society's sake.